


and the only way has been

by bulletthestars



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3135428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletthestars/pseuds/bulletthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Japanese GP '13. Fernando comes to Mark's room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the only way has been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sundaymorning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundaymorning/gifts).



This is not a routine. Or maybe it is, but Mark knows that it will cease to be soon enough. He'll miss every part of this. The fumbling, trying not to trip over one another's feet even though they're a pair of thirty somethings and not two horny teenagers, all too eager to get one another off. Fernando tugs at Mark's shirt, and Mark manages to pull it off in between kisses before he trips, falling backwards on to the bed, pulling Fernando with him.

Fernando stills momentarily, looking down at Mark, and there's something that clouds his eyes. Fear? Worry? Lust? Everything, Mark supposes. Things are always complicated when it comes to Fernando, and sometimes even sex is no exception. Sometimes Mark wonders what he has with Fernando. They don't have a name for this, Friends with Benefits sounds too... Clinical, perhaps. Like it's an exchange, but that isn't what this is. At least, that's what Mark likes to think.

'You win,' Fernando says in carefully measured tones. Calculative, careful, even in bed. Either that or Mark is over thinking, still thinking even when all he should be doing is feeling. Fernando looks at Mark, eyes assessing before reaching for Mark.

'Oh?' Mark answers, eyebrow raised. He leans into Fernando's touch.

'In here,' Fernando says, looking down at his chest before looking back at Mark. 'But is not enough, no?'

Mark doesn't answer. He doesn't need to, because they both know how it is. Fernando leans in for another kiss, and Mark's tugging at Fernando's t-shirt, flinging it aside when he manages to remove it.

 _This is not routine_ , Mark thinks as Fernando slides a hand in between them to cup him through his jeans. Mark groans, arching up to rub against Fernando's palm. They don't do this at every race. There's hardly any opportunity to do so. It's only on certain... Occasions that they get to do this. It's special.

But is it really? It's always a matter of whether someone will notice whether someone will find out whether they have time to slip away, planned and thought out and cancelled on when something crops up, fifteen minutes spent together kissing and fumbling with one another whenever they can and that's it. There's more sex than anything now, Mark thinks, but he doesn't really mind.

(The truth is, he does, he wants more than just having Fernando lying beneath him, clutching at his shoulders, cursing away in Spanish as Mark fucks him. He doesn't want to have to think of what everyone else would think, he just wants to be with Fernando properly sometimes, without the hiding, without all the other bullshit that comes with being with another Formula One driver. Four more races and his career in Formula One is over and maybe, his relationship with Fernando too. But he isn't going to think about it. Not yet. Not now. That's for Brazil.

So Mark pushes the thought away when Fernando threads his fingers through his hair and pulls him down for a kiss, hips jerking forward to grind against him.)

In the morning, Mark awakens to an empty bed. Fernando is dressing by the window, hurriedly pulling on his jeans.

'Morning.'

'I'm late,' Fernando says, gesturing to the clock by the bedside.

'Right,' Mark says. There's an awkward sort of silence before Fernando's coming over. He hesitates, leans in as if to kiss Mark but ends up hugging him instead.

'See you in India,' Fernando says, heading for the door.

'Yeah,' Mark answers, eyes never leaving Fernando's retreating figure.

The door closes with a resounding sort of finality, and Mark wonders.


End file.
